The Beginning of a New Chapter: My Survival Story in LA. Part 2: Seeking a Way Out.

When I woke up, panic overwhelmed me. I felt completely lost—what to do, where to go? My first instinct was to message Alex, pleading with him not to cancel the shooting scheduled at his studio. I desperately needed the money to rent a place to stay, even if just for a while. But he didn’t respond. I reached out to my agent and found out Alex had already canceled the shoot. It wasn’t surprising, but it was devastating.

I broke down again, crying uncontrollably. It’s such a terrible feeling to be so lost that even the will to live seems to slip away. In my desperation, I called my sister. She always knows what to say. Her words still echo in my mind:

“Why are you crying? He’s a junkie and a loser who never appreciated you, always belittled your achievements. Stop crying. Everything will be okay.”

By evening, I started writing to Alex again, calling him to get my belongings. I didn’t even have a phone charger with me—it must have ended up in a different bag. He still didn’t answer. I called my mom and asked her to try reaching out to him. He ignored her calls, too, but finally responded after her message, texted me that my things would be delivered soon.

When my belongings arrived, they were dumped in the same chaotic mess in which they’d been packed. I repacked everything properly and prepared to check out of the hotel the next day. Still, I had no idea where to go.

That night, I collapsed into bed, unable to think. I was utterly drained—mentally and emotionally.

The next morning, I checked out and sat in the hotel lobby, clueless about my next move. After sending Alex several WhatsApp messages about his behavior, he finally replied, saying I could extend my stay for another night, and he’d pay for it. A single night at that hotel cost about $170, and as you might recall, I only had $500 in my account. There was no way I could afford it.

However, since I had already checked out, the hotel couldn’t process the payment on the same card, they needed a physical one. Alex told me to pay myself, promising to reimburse me later. It was around 11 a.m. when I sent him the receipt, but he didn’t transfer the money. By 8 p.m., I messaged him again: “Thanks for lying to me.” Only then did he send the money, accompanied by a message calling me an “ungrateful bitch.” I didn’t care about the insult—what mattered was that he finally sent the money.

Throughout the day, I reached out to the few acquaintances I had, hoping someone could help me find a place to stay. Unsurprisingly, no one could—or would. Most of them didn’t really know me, and to be honest, they had little reason to care.

Finally, I managed to reach a guy I’d met in Mexico while waiting for my border crossing date. We hadn’t spoken in about four months, and I was a sobbing mess as I explained my situation. While he couldn’t offer me a place to stay, he did agree to pick up my belongings.

Once again, I repacked everything, leaving only a small bag with essentials and preparing the rest for him to take. He promised to come early in the morning before work.

With just the small bag, I felt more mobile. It was easier to move around this way. I decided to stay in a hostel and found the cheapest one in the city, booking the most affordable spot for a couple of days. It was in Los Angeles, in Koreatown. One problem was solved—but another loomed: work.

I considered all sorts of options, even the possibility of heading to Nevada to work in a brothel. That’s how low I felt.

I called my sister again, asking for her guidance. She practices esotericism and has been doing tarot readings for a while. She suggested using the cards to explore which jobs might suit me. I didn’t want to continue working in adult films; it had never provided a stable income, and honestly, it wasn’t for me—it had always felt like an uphill battle.

After the reading, we discussed a few quick money-making options. The list was short: delivery services and strip clubs.

I started researching online. Most delivery jobs required having your own car, and those that didn’t often involved lugging around heavy packages—not exactly ideal for someone like me. That left strip clubs.

The thought of going back into that world was disheartening. I remembered my past experiences in Russia and a brief stint at a club in Prague. I hadn’t enjoyed it, and the idea of returning felt like a step backward. But it was something I knew how to do—and something I was good at. During my time in Russia, I’d taught myself pole dancing during slow nights at the club, where there was nothing else to do. It was a skill I could rely on for fast cash.

Still, I decided to sleep on it before making a final decision.

Early the next morning, my acquaintance arrived to pick up my belongings. With a clearer mind and at least some sense of direction, I headed to the hostel.